Shamed (Kate Burkholder #11)(30)

“I know that. I do. Still, I’m going to do some poking around.” I can tell by his expression he doesn’t concur. It’s not the first time we’ve disagreed on a case. Fortunately, both of us are confident enough in our respective positions, with our experience and perspectives, to admit it when we get it wrong.

“In the interim,” he says, rising, “I’m going to round up that composite artist. She’s in Parma, so give me a couple hours.”

I get to my feet, pick up my duty belt from the table, buckle it around my hips. “Call me and I’ll meet you at the Helmuths’.”

“You got it.” Leaning close, he kisses me. “Don’t spend too much time looking for ghosts.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” I tell him, and start toward the door.



* * *



One of the pitfalls of being a cop—or one of the advantages, if you’re a glass-half-full sort—is that you look at the things people say with a healthy dose of skepticism. You look at the things they don’t say with suspicion. It’s not that you think everyone is a liar; you just happen to know from experience individuals lie with more frequency than most people realize, especially in times of crisis. My general rule of thumb is that if it doesn’t make sense or if conflicting information begins to pile up, there’s a problem. At the very least it’s worth a second look.

I’m thinking about Miriam Helmuth and potential motives for lying when I enter the station. Mona Kurtz, who still spends most of her time working dispatch, stands at her station, speaking into the headset, waving a stack of pink message slips at me. She’s still wearing her uniform. Like me, she stayed up all night. Unlike me, she looks fresh and ready to tackle her day. Tugging the slips from her hand, I make tracks toward my office and unlock the door.

I’ve just booted up my laptop when Mona taps on the jamb. “Chief?”

“Morning,” I say as I log in. “Any luck with the stats on the Helmuth children?”

She takes the visitor chair adjacent to my desk. “I talked to the clerk at the Holmes County General Health District. She’s going to courier birth certificates and related info for the Helmuth children by day’s end.” She glances down at the sheet of paper in her hand. “Seven of the Helmuth children were delivered by a local midwife, Martha Hershberger. The midwife followed protocol and filed for birth certificates shortly after birth.”

My hand freezes on the keyboard and I give her my full attention. “Is the remaining child Elsie Helmuth?”

Her eyes flash interest. “Get this: There’s no birth certificate on file for Elsie. No social security number. No paperwork or documentation was ever filed.”

“Well that’s interesting as hell.”

The majority of Amish women use midwives to deliver their babies at home. In the state of Ohio, most midwives are certified and, as a matter of course, file the appropriate paperwork with the local registrar for birth certificates and social security numbers. Some of the Old Order and Swartzentruber Amish don’t bother with registering their newborns for a birth certificate, and sometimes not even a social security number. Those are the babies that sometimes fall through the cracks when it comes time for a first job or even a driver’s license during Rumspringa—the period in a teen’s life before they’re baptized, when they have the freedom to break all those Amish rules without too much in terms of repercussions. Those are the ones who have to go through the process of obtaining proper identification as young adults.

The Helmuths are neither Swartzentruber nor Old Order. So why doesn’t Elsie Helmuth have a birth certificate?

“Anything on Marlene, the sister?”

“Still looking.”

“Chief?”

I glance up to see my first-shift dispatcher, Lois Monroe, standing in the doorway. “Everyone’s in the war room,” she tells me.

“Be right there.”

Lois rushes back to reception, and I turn my attention to Mona. “Have you had any sleep?”

“With everything that’s going on…”

I’ve been seeking a third-shift dispatcher for several weeks now. Unfortunately, none of the candidates have been right. “If it’s any consolation, you’re proving to be a hard woman to replace.”

Rising, she grins and heads out the door.

A few minutes later, I’m in the “war room,” which is basically a storage room turned meeting room. I’m standing at the half podium Lois has set up on a folding table. She’s taped a map of Holmes County to the dry-erase board behind me, with Painters Mill circled in red. A red X demarks the Helmuth farm. A second X marks the Schattenbaum place.

I look out at my team and I feel the part of me that’s stressed out and exhausted settle. A missing endangered juvenile is a worst-case scenario for any police department. But I know my officers, and I’ve no doubt they’ll put in the hours and do whatever it takes to find her.

“I appreciate everyone working double shifts.” I glance down at my notes, but I don’t need them. I outline the basic facts of both cases and where we are in terms of the investigation.

I look at Lois, who’s standing in the doorway so she can attend the meeting and still hear the phones. “You get the stats and description of Elsie Helmuth typed up?”